Once upon a time, there was a little girl and a wolf.
The little girl wore scarlet each day, the color of blood and lust and passion and love.
The wolf had a coat of gray and black and white, the colors of the forest in winter.
Scarlet (Blood)
Their first times are very different. She awoke with it pounding in her ears. He awoke with it forced upon him.
When she first awoke, all she could think about was blood. Blood, to drink. Blood, to feed. Blood to survive. She saw it in everyone that passed around her, friend and foe. She could hear their beating hearts, too loud in their ears, and the flush in their cheeks that mocked her. She could feel their warmth, their evidence of living, their blood. It scared her, how much she thirsted after it, but what exactly was it?
She found the answer in an empty blood bag moments later.
When he first awoke, he knew nothing. His first thought was numbed, as were the rest of his coherent thoughts. His mind was jumbled up, bits and shards of information and emotions floating around. Nothing was complete; it was as if the thoughts had been stolen right out of his mind.
Where was his family? What had happened? Why. . . why were they all on the floor?
Someone groaned next to him and he jumped, the sound piercing his ears to the point of pain. His sister propped herself up, her eyes wide. She was as lost as he was, confused and scared. However, he didn't know until the lust hit. Then, the same scenario played out. He thirsted after the source of his existence, accepting it without a second thought.
And so the little girl met the wolf in the forest one day, and they spoke.
Unknowingly so, she let the wolf into her heart and her purity.
And he poisoned her.
Scarlet (Passion)
They have the same memory of passion.
She meets him in the woods.
They barely say any words before she's pushed up against a tree, furiously smashing her lips against his. She wastes no time ridding him of his jacket (and later his shirt), moaning as passionately as she can. Her head lolls back as the pleasure hits, her arms clutching his shoulders as she cries his name.
She leaves like she came, with barely any words.
He meets her in the woods.
They barely say any words before he pushes her against a tree, soaking in the scent of her lucsious skin, her hair, and the taste of her lips. He wastes no time in ripping off her shirt, lust controlling him. He gasps as they come up for air, and moans when they sink back down into their passion. His fingers squeeze her waist as he lets out one final groan, managing to gasp out her name.
He leaves like he came, with barely any words.
The wolf envies her innocence, her love.
And so he schemes to take it for himself.
Scarlet (Love)
They both have very different experiences of love.
Her first meeting with love was when she realized something for Matt Donovan.
It wasn't as if she'd never noticed him, of course. They were friends, friends until the bitter end. But no one thought it would happen. The school bitch and the football gentleman? Never. But as time passed, they grew closer, and she found a definition of love that hurt much less.
Her second meeting with love was with Tyler Lockwood.
Now this was a pairing the school had been waiting for. The school bitch and the football dick. Perfect.
It didn't quite work out that way. She broke him and he broke her and it was a constant cycle of it, of hurting and mending and hurting and mending again. They loved each other, but it was in a broken way.
Her third meeting with love was with him. It wasn't really love, if she stepped back and looked at the whole picture. It was barely camaraderie, to be fair. It was him chasing after her and her barely escaping out of his reach. And yet it culminated in a relationship that she had never had with any of her past lovers.
His first meeting with love was with his siblings.
It had seemed natural, from the moment he realized they were family, to stick to her like the autumn leaves stuck to dry dirt. They played together, ate together, and bore the wrath of their father together. Then came Elijah, older and wiser, wanting to join their group. He added balance to their activities, a dampen on their liveliness, but a much-needed dampen. Kol came next, wild and wily Kol, who needed no one and nothing in life to survive. He lived off of trouble and fun, and made the double side of him come out more than once. Finn joined, almost too reluctantly. Unlike Elijah, he was not wise or calm. He was older, yes, but he was stoic and unfeeling in a way Elijah strived to avoid. He barely invested himself in their games. Then there was Henrik. Dear, sweet, innocent Henrik, who had done nothing to him and who should have enjoyed himself longer than the few years he got.
His second meeting with love was with Tatia Petrova. It was more like an infatuation than love, especially after she chose Elijah. There was nothing more to tell about her.
His third meeting with love was with her. That legend has its ons and its offs, the climaxes and the lulls, and it continues. He has not let go, and he suspects that she has not either.
His fourth meeting with love was with his moment he sees Hope is one that is ingrained into his mind for eternity. The rosiness of her face, her skin, her dark eyes a carbon copy of his own. Swaddled in a blanket that she gratefully accepted, holding onto his fingers relentlessly. He gives her to his sister because he knows it's the right choice.
He wants her back because he wants someone to love him regardless of his evils.
When he arrives at the heart of her soul, he wastes no time.
He devours her single joy whole, and enjoys the way he feels afterwards, full and satisfied.
He is a masquerading horror in the happiest part of her life.
Gray (Emotionless)
She is not one to be emotionless. She has never fully experienced the emotion (or lack thereof), because no matter what she tries to do, she will always have an opinion. The perfect person to wiggle out of a Sophie's Choice victoriously. She does what she thinks is right, and inserts herself into the situation regardless of the approval of others or not.
She tries very hard to be emotionless around him. Not completely so, but just to the extent that she believes that her nonchalance will rub off and she'll finally be left alone. It works against her; he pursues her even more relentlessly, chasing after her like the animal he is. Strangely, she enjoys it; the sort of stubborn adoration that she isn't used to. When it is all over, though, she feels numb. Inside, outside. Perhaps it is the coldness of the season, or the wind that rustles her hair and the leaves surrounding her feet. But perhaps it is also because she misses him, the gap inside her that she never knew she even had in the first place empty once more.
She becomes emotionless once more, when one of the last people she leans on leaves. But that missing humanity, even to her, is nothing. It is not the lack of emotion; it is the traumatic mixture of agony, anger, and sorrow egging her on.
And strangely enough, the last thing she thinks about before she loses herself is him.
He has had many emotionless moments over his ten centuries of life, each one less painful and less meaningful than the last. It is a very simple truth to him, the existence without true purpose. He understands it and it understands him. So when he offers himself away, the reaper takes without asking first. But no, he does not shut off his humanity like her; he does not need to. Everything he has done has been for himself, his victories and his downfalls. He never needs to officially leave himself because he is already gone, his corpse burnt inside like the rotting core of his bloody family.
If anything, he feels more than she does. Than anyone does. It is the pain and the joy that makes him the way he is, jaded and dissatisfied with everything in his life. The experiences make him numb like she is, but in a different way. He almost never experiences a specific emotion strongly; they all blend together on the canvas of his rage soon enough.
She cannot tell at first, her expectation throwing her off guard.
She walks in without concern, carefree and lovely as she is.
And still, it takes her a while to realize what she is seeing.
Black (Power)
She craves it. The authority, the feeling of acceptance and commandership, to have everyone agree with her opinion. To have all of the people follow her without complaint. But she knows deep down that power is not for her. She is a small time girl with too-big dreams, ones that are so far out of her reach that she cannot even fathom her own future anymore. It is cloudy and broken. Her days of domination and power are long over, and she knows it. She still longs for her glory days, the ones where she could live without fear.
Sometimes she thanks herself for her inner power craze, because it draws him to her. Or her to him. She's not quite sure; she cannot pinpoint the exact moment where they became a true pair, a true match. It doesn't matter in the end. Everything ends, even their memories together.
He has always hungered for it. A born leader, a born king of the chosen. His conniving but convincing voice, his brand of devilish and handsome that brings his prey right to his doorstep. (No sense in a king dirtying his hands for food anyway.) However, fate does not see to it that way. No, fate is cruel and mischievous, and it pummels him into his own cruel world, where the prey know their predators, and the servants carry a knife in the darkness to slit their masters' throats. A world where a king is at the mercy of his people, where power comes before blood and where love is the most dangerous master of all.
Over the centuries, his longing for power has thinned, becoming an aimless wanderlust that brings him full circle into his hometown. He walks the streets with a different face, but with the same soul. The same calculating look behind his eyes, his hate fueled by logic and history. When he sets eyes on Tatia Petrova once again, he sees the centuries mirrored, the reincarnation process reviewed and metamorphosed in front of him. He cannot accept it for the truth, the new version of his cruel love and her new life, her only trouble being two loves. It seems too perfect, too simple. He wreaks havoc because he is not used to such pristinity, because everything is a ticking bomb, a poisonous utopia, a trigger waiting to be pulled. He cannot stand those that have not been hurt as much as he has, the type of hurt that drives someone over the edge.
His havoc brings him temporary salvation. The lives of the doppelganger and her friends run red with blood, but it calms him. The blood of his own is untouchable (one of the beliefs that holds him back), but the blood of others is expendable. A game that he controls.
His yearn for power drives her to him. Or him to her. He's never sure. But like all good things, it came to a bitter end.
She opens her mouth to scream, and he devours her, just like he devoured her grandmother only seconds ago.
It is a new sensation for the both of them.
The end of a meaningless existence to fuel an even more meaningless one.
White (Purity)
Neither of them are pure.
She is not pure, not with the lives of countless people on her hands. Those she has fed from, those she has stomped the life out of. She is not pure, no matter how many people compliment her on her angelic blonde curls. She is not pure, no matter how many smiles she pulls or how many people she can attract. Eventually, all of that fades into nothingness as she is left with her guilt on her palms, telling the entire story. That is when she cries, when she breaks herself down into nothing.
He is certainly not pure, not with all of the lives on his hands. Those he has fed and killed, used and tossed. Unlike her, however, he was never the angel; he was the devil that people stayed with, against their better decisions. He is not pure, and the stained walls of his hell confirms it. He never cries about it. He picks up his smile and goes out to prey again. When he returns, he washes his sins off of his palms, and resumes as if nothing ever happened. And as far as he is concerned, too much has happened to make anything worth remembering.
They both drown themselves in self-hate and alcohol, and they die until dawn, when they are reborn a shadow of themselves.
She comes out of it unharmed, and the wolf is slayed without a second thought.
His howls haunt her for the rest of her life, and still her grandmother is never the same.
White (Completion)
They came together under a dark sky, the darkest sky of both of their lives. They leave under a bright sky, the brightest of both of their lives. She does not feel anything during their first meeting. Neither does he. It's a slow burn, a flame smothered by leaves- and then breaking through without help. She is stubborn- she refuses to admit it to herself until he confronts her. He is broken- he knows that it is important to him when he feels the pain even at the end of the day.
They come and they leave. They come and they leave. It is their pattern, their process, their prologue and epilogue without a story to accompany. It is almost too late for them to go back, to admit to each other that they need one another, for however long it takes. And besides, they are too proud to admit that they complete each other.
But there is a sliver of time, of possibility, that they will return to each other. And when they do, the moon will shine brighter than ever, and the trees will remember their footfalls crunching against the dry leaves as they reunite, more connected than ever.
She tosses and turns at night, the sharp gleam of the wolf's teeth flashing in front of her eyes.
And his alluring voice, silky smooth and friendly, luring her to her demise.
fin.